


If I'm a Mermaid

by Hagar



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Novella, POV Multiple, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sadistic UnSub hellbent on revenge puts the BAU on a coast-to-coast chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My love and gratitude to Tami, who gave me this UnSub, and to Mara and MerryArwen, who beta'ed.

_Therein lies the defect of revenge: it's all in the anticipation; the thing itself is a pain, not a pleasure; at least the pain is the biggest end of it. – Mark Twain_

 

 _Day 2_

 

The sunrise over the water was gorgeous. Newton sipped some coffee. Sentimentality: that’s all there was to it, really. There had been so many sunrises, over so many bodies of water. It was a silly thing to go back for but, twenty years later, there you were: right were it started.

So to speak. The original scene would have been the school, unless one was talking about the sunrise, in which case the original scene was Newton’s parents’ house, which wasn’t their house, anymore, being that they were gone. The school was still standing, even though earlier versions of the Plan included burning it down to a crisp. It was just too much of a bother.

The sunrise, though… all those nights Newton had borne through on the promise of that miracle of fire, mist and water. It wasn’t the exact view of Newton’s childhood’s bedroom window or back yard, but it was close enough: same vegetation, same dirt, same certain slant of light.

This will be an original scene too in its way, the first of five. The bushes provided the frame, the trails in the grass the perspective, leading the beholder’s eye to the subject. The knives were deliberately arranged in careful mimicry of careless tossing, highlighting the composition. And the sunrise: the sunrise provided the lighting and a canvas of sorts, but it was more than that. It crowned the scene, giving it meaning without being too obvious about it.

Newton had had years to prepare and knew by heart the exact parameters for a sunrise shot in any weather at any of the other scenes. This being the one unpracticed scene meant some guesswork, but practice minimized that. The first shot didn’t have to be perfect – it wasn’t like the subject was moving, anymore – but nothing beat the exhilaration of a perfect first shot. Well, not quite: it will make a bang of a close for a blast of a night. Newton stood by the camera, basking in the dawn and the perfect scene and waiting for the light to reach the right intensity, the right angle, savoring the quickened pulse and stomach butterflies of anticipation.

The first shot was perfect.

Newton finished the coffee, packed up the camera with the loving care she deserved, and got going. There was a schedule to stick to, now that the Plan was finally in motion.

 

 _Day 15_

 

Robert and Louise Hursthouse had a nice home in a nice neighbourhood in Denver, Colorado. The paint had been redone in the last year; the windows were sparkling clean, the curtains hanging in them in good taste; the lawn was mowed, but not aggressively so; the SUV in the driveway the kind of car the belonged in the neighbourhood.

Prentiss pocketed the keys as she and Morgan exited the bureau-issued SUV. “So quiet,” she said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth as they walked up to the front door. “So normal.”

“I hate this part,” he admitted, speaking in kind.

“The poor woman,” murmured Prentiss.

Robert Hursthouse disappeared a few days before. He had dropped his twelve-year-old daughter Samantha at clarinet class but never made it back home. His car had not been found and there had been no ransom demands. That wasn’t all of it, though. Four days before his disappearance Robert Hursthouse had called 911 in panic after finding a package on his doorstep which contained a note reading “It’s your turn now” and some bloody, messy things in a clear plastic bag. The bloody, messy things turned out to be a pair of human lips and a human tongue. At the time Morgan and Prentiss knocked on Mrs. Hursthouse’s door the first victim was yet unidentified: the body parts had been handled carelessly – left outside, frozen in a home freezer, defrosted, left outside some more – and the DNA degradation complicated the forensic processing. The lips and tongue belonged to a male, and as Garcia has failed to match it to any recent murders even in a nation-wide search there was no telling when they’d know more.

They were very obviously dealing with an organized, revenge-motivated UnSub; probably male, judging by the degree of violence; possibly of a similar age to his victim, late thirties to early forties. What little they had of the UnSub’s pattern suggested that Hursthouse was at least the second victim and probably not the last, as an UnSub this elaborate, this dramatic was likely to reserve special flair for the pinnacle of their killing sequence.

Louise Hursthouse was of average height, elegant in an understated sort of a way: hair dye mimicking the natural shade, tasteful makeup highlighting hazel eyes in a heart-shaped face, and wore a buttoned-down shirt and slacks even when welcoming them at her home.

“Please, come in,” she said.

The house was neat, but not oppressively so. The hallway was painted a warm amber, family photos hanging on the wall. Prentiss accepted Mrs. Hursthouse’s offer of a glass of water, and that gave her and Morgan a chance to glance into the kitchen: fancy Kitchenaid mixer, expensive oven, solid-wood island, but the placement of the utilities suggested that the Hursthouses didn’t cook very often. The dining table was polished to the point of gleaming. In comparison, the living room set – two couches, two armchairs – was cozy more than it was elegant.

They hosted, but not much. The center of the house bore the mark of children, but boundaries were enforced. All signs indicated a healthy family, even if both parents worked long hours.

“I already spoke to the police,” said Mrs. Hursthouse as they sat down. “What more do you need to know?”

“We’re Behavioral Analysis, Ma’am,” said Morgan. “We don’t ask all the same questions. We don’t look at all the same things.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We focus on the person,” said Prentiss. “On the way that people behave. It’s a different kind of evidence.”

The minute pursing of Mrs. Hursthouse’s lips, tiny tensing of the throat and the shoulders, suggested that she didn’t quite understand. What she said was, “What do you need to know?”

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hursthouse recalled little out of the ordinary: workplace incidents, neighbourly disputes, the kind of things that happened when one worked in HR management and had been living in the same neighbourhood for twelve years. They sicced Garcia on it and, though she dug up ten times as much information as the Denver PD had, the bottom line was the same: not a single suspicious thing. They went to Mr. Hursthouse’s workplace, and then to Mrs. Hursthouse’s. They talked to the one disgruntled neighbour who still lived close by. They were in the SUV on the way to the hotel when Morgan’s phone went off.

He put it on speaker and placed it in the cup holder. “Morgan. What’s up, Hotch?”

“Where are you?”

“We’re heading to the hotel. Neighbour was a bust. And Garcia says none of the other leads panned out.”

“That’s because this is not about any of these things,” said Hotch. “DNA is back on the first victim, and he is not the first.”

“How do we know that?”

“The lips and tongue belong to a Jeffrey Garrard from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Garrard had been missing for over a week and, in the days before his disappearance, received an envelope containing an identical note and human nipples.”

“Exact same MO,” said Morgan. “How’d Garcia not find this?”

“Incomplete tagging,” said Hotch laconically. Morgan mentally translated that as the Denver detective being either very tired, Old School, or both.

“The nipples are male, too,” Hotch continued, “and the DNA is at least as heavily degraded as the Garrard body parts. There’s no match, yet, but we may not necessarily need one.”

“How so?”

“According to Garcia, both victims graduated at the same year from the same school, and they just had a reunion last month. The woman who organized it lives at that town. JJ and I are heading there. You two did victimology on Hursthouse, it’s best if you take Garrard as well.”

Morgan held back a frustrated huff. “Wheels off when?”

“First light tomorrow. Try to get some sleep tonight.”

“Sure thing, Hotch. You, too.”

“Morgan.” Hotch’s voice didn’t have the edge of a warning; ‘tired’ was too expressive an adjective, as well. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

Prentiss reached to disconnect the call, allowing Morgan to keep both hands on the wheel.

“Up before the sun,” she said. “And twice on the jet in 24 hours. Joy.”

“Garrard had better be the second victim,” he said, “or we may be town-skipping for a while.”

 

 _Days 2-10_

 

It required a lot of hours on the road. A hell of a lot of hours, to someone who wasn’t used to that kind of life, which Newton was. The frying pan of Newton’s youth was left in the rearview mirror early in the morning, never to be seen again, with the stinky pile of flesh that was once a sorry excuse for a human being left cooling on the beach. It only took one day of driving to make it to the next destination, and then Newton had to stay put for days, which would have been unbearable except that Sorry Excuse for a Person the Second was freaking the hell out after receiving their little poetry basket. Newton didn’t get to do that with Dirtbag the First, and it was immensely satisfying, oh-so-very incredibly, belly-warming gratifying, and it did not diminish even one bit the adrenaline rush when foreplay was over and it was time to move in.

It gave Newton something to gloat over during the long, long drive to the next stop, singing along with the CD player and tapping fingers on the wheel. Safe driving dictated two days and one incredibly long night of fitful dreaming. The next night Newton slept like a baby until morning came and Piece of Shit the Third found his due warning and started raising hell.

This time it wasn’t as fun, though. This time it was getting really, seriously, not-fun-anymore frustrating. Dirtbag the First hadn’t seen it coming, but Fucktard the Second should have and the same to Waste of Breath the Third. Not only had they been _there_ but they were treated to Newton’s packages, they were supposed to remember, they should have _known._ The sorry dregs of shit still didn’t know who it was right across the road, counting down minutes and thinking longingly of the set of knives – beautiful and shining and sharp enough to weep over – in their gift-wrapped box.

It made Newton all the more furious, more determined to get this pentaptych right.

 

 _Day 16_

 

They were spread thin, but Hotch considered it a non-issue safety-wise. This UnSub wanted to be found, wanted his victims to know who was hurting them. The lack of DNA and fingerprints merely reaffirmed that they were dealing with an organized personality and they had other hints to work on, things that meant something to the UnSub and thus meant something about him, such as the deliberately phrased handwritten notes and the choice of body parts.

All Reid needed was a phone line to Garcia, a quiet room and someone to bounce ideas off of. Rossi had perfected the skill of pushing the BAU’s brightest while giving him enough room to the degree of art. With the suspect pool narrowed down to a single graduating class of a single school, Hotch entertained the idea that Reid and Rossi would pin down the UnSub before he and JJ ever made it to East Carteret High.

As for Prentiss and Morgan, they had a field dynamic that didn’t need to be rehearsed. They played off of each other easily, naturally, an effective mixture of similar and complementary traits.

And then there was JJ in the passenger seat, talking a mile a minute as she untangled the last of the administrative knots that the team – that Hotch’s snap decisions – left in its wake with typical Gordian efficiency, not even trying to mask the frequency at which her eyes left the PDA and flicked over to him.

This was difficult for her, he knew: that she was so much more readable to any of them then they were to her, though they were all on the road together. JJ was perceptive, sensitive and talented with people, and people outside the BAU took her for a profiler as often as not. For those on the inside, though, the difference was unmistakable, and the word for the way JJ related to it was _clung._ She would play it, sometimes, like her attempt to protect her and Will’s relationship, or when she thought it was the better way to reduce the load on any of her teammates. Other times, her knowing they’d catch the small tells anyway meant she didn’t even try to hide them. JJ’s candor was a show of professionalism – not burdening her teammates with the need to decipher her – as much as it was a calculated strategy, because the best way to bypass a BAU profiler’s defenses was through honesty and trust.

That was one reason – or two, really; and another one was exemplified by the wallpaper on her private cell phone. As effective and natural as the other two sub-teams were, JJ was what clenched this particular division of labor in his mind. If he was to split the team in three and spend some days on the road with only one of them, JJ was the first choice on every possible account.

They were almost there when JJ finally snapped the phone shut and put it down.

“How are we doing?” she asked.

“Half a mile to the access road,” he said, “then another half a mile to the school.”

“Good,” she said. Her smile was small but genuine. “What did we ever do before the days of GPS?”

“Used actual road maps,” he said. “The woods?” he asked, because they were surrounded and it was pointless to pretend that he didn’t know; or that even if he hadn’t known before, he didn’t notice how she was avoiding the view; or that it didn’t matter.

“Different kind of trees,” she said, completely serious. “Thanks for not sending me to Pittsburgh.”

The corner of his mouth didn’t quirk, exactly, but it did relax, because that was JJ-speak for _I’m fine_ and _Thanks for caring_ and something Hotch roughly interpreted as _Glad I could give you something innocuous to worry about,_ though JJ would never phrase it quite like that.

“Are we meeting Nicole Matthews there so you could get a feel of the place?”

“Yes, and also because not all the files pertaining to the class of 1990 had been computerized,” he said. “We’re looking for people who were socially rejected or isolated during their school years. We also need to get as clear a picture as possible on the social circle of the known victims.”

“Garcia ran the names of everyone from that class,” said JJ. “Out of a little more than a hundred students, seven raised flags. She texted me the names and emailed some more information. I suppose I can print it from a school computer.”

“Let’s not prompt Ms. Matthews with these names,” he said as he turned into the school’s parking lot.

“See if she brings any of them up herself,” said JJ. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Jeffrey Garrard lived alone. He didn’t even have a cat, just a white Cockatoo that had somehow survived the three days before Garrard’s boss reported him missing.

Prentiss passed a finger across one of the bookshelves. “He had to have kept a maid,” she said. “This place is entirely too clean, taking into account that nobody but the PD had been here in ten days.”

“He could definitely afford it,” said Morgan. “Did you see that coffee machine?”

“You mean the small spaceship in the kitchen?” asked Prentiss rhetorically. “Yes, I have. You know, these books are in an incredibly good condition. He either never read them or was very careful with them. Based on the fact that these are off of the bestsellers lists, I’d say the former.”

“Goes with the living room,” agreed Morgan. “Expensive leather couch facing the view from the fifteenth floor? This guy lived for show.”

“Both he and Richard Hursthouse did well for themselves,” she said, raising her voice as Morgan walked down the hallway. “That and their hometown are the only things they had in common. Maybe it’s not about old injustices – maybe the UnSub didn’t do as well and snapped after having it rubbed into his face at the reunion.”

“Could be,” Morgan called out from the bedroom. “It could be a recent change for him if he’d been hit by the economy.”

“Either way, he’d have to have enough available funds for this operation.”

“Timeline suggests he’s driving. And revenge-motivated, maybe he’s not planning on having a future after this. He could be making by on the last of his funds.”

“He could,” she agreed. “We should call Hotch. He and JJ are talking to the reunion lady – this should be another line of questioning.”

“You call Hotch. I’ll call Garcia.”

 

* * *

 

Garcia glanced at the phone just to see which line it was, not bothering to read the number. She tapped the button with her pen. “You’ve reached the crossroad of all knowledge, this is the goddess of the crossroad speaking.”

“Garcia, it’s Hotch.”

“Yes, Sir,” she chirped. Sharp and cheerful was the way to go with Hotch. He never returned her serves but sometimes, if she piled the enthusiasm high enough, his voice would warm a little. The frequency of these occurrences had gone from “irregular” to “practically never” in recent months, but Penelope Garcia did not do giving up. “How can I help?”

“JJ and I got a few names from Nicole Matthews. Cross them with yesterday’s list and with whatever Morgan’s and Prentiss’s idea turned up.”

She already had all the files on that class open. “Throw some names at me.”

“Of a hundred and seventeen people in the relevant class, Matthews named four who were certainly or likely harassed by other students. We have a Christopher Harris – ”

Grey list. “He lives two towns over, married with two, works at an auto shop. He’s been using his credit card and hasn’t gone anywhere in the past weeks.”

“Eric Procter.”

Far right side of her primary monitor, as white list as they came. “Sorry, honey. While priesthood is not necessarily guarantee of good virtue, Proctor is no good for this. He’s been right where he should be with his parish in Wisconsin.”

Hotch didn’t reply to that, not directly, but his tone shifted from distracted and preoccupied to something a little less flat as he said: “Brian Corey.”

Corey’s name was on top of the black list to the left of her monitor. “Bingo. Brian Corey is an independent trucker. His parents split when he was fifteen. Mommy left the house, and daddy died seven years ago, having not been kind to his liver. Brian never married. I’d call this an UnSub-ish past and no reason to like successful ex-schoolmates.”

“Broken family and a blue collar job,” agreed Hotch. “Can you tell where he’s been since the reunion?”

Wherein was the next domino. Or the problem. “No can do,” she told Hotch. “He’s been completely off the grid since the reunion party. He hasn’t made so much as an ATM withdrawal.”

“Huh.” Beat. “Let me know if that changes.”

“Done before you asked,” she said. She chewed on the inside of her lip. “There’s something else that might interest you.”

“What is it?”

“There is a Steven Barber from this class who never returned home to Miami. His boss reported him missing. There’s an ex that PD there liked for all of two days, but it didn’t catch and basically? They don’t know anything.”

“Steven Barber.” Spoken away from the phone, probably sifting through papers. “Matthews didn’t mention him at all, but the disappearance is suspicious. Garcia,” speaking directly into the phone again _._ “Keep digging. Let me know if there’s anything.”

“But of course, my liege.”

In an empty counselor’s office at East Carteret High, Hotch disconnected the call and looked at JJ, who looked up from her notes. “A potential UnSub and a putative first victim?” she asked.

“Could be,” he said. “Something’s strange, though. Brian Corey has gone completely off the radar since the reunion. Garcia said not even a cash withdrawal.”

JJ frowned. “It’s been over two weeks,” she said. “He would’ve had to pay for _something._ Gas and food, at the very least.”

“I did say it’s strange.”

“What next?”

“Talk to Matthews again, ask her about Barber specifically. We need to locate anyone who lives in this area and knows anyone from this school year. We also need to organize searches. These crime scenes are out there, and we need to find them. I’ll tell Rossi that when I catch him and Reid up on things.”

“You want Morgan and Prentiss in Miami.”

“Yes. If Barber is either a victim or our UnSub then we need to know more about him, and if his disappearance is unrelated then we need to know that, too.”

She nodded, and stood up. “I’ll call Matthews back in,” she said. “You complete the interview, I’ll take care of everything else.”

“JJ.”

She took her hand off the doorknob and turned around. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t smile, so she did. “Sure thing, Hotch.”

 

 _Day 14_

 

Asinine Twit the Fourth had acquired a dog since Newton’s previous visit. That complicated matters. Roxy was adorable, and it wasn’t her fault that her owner had one order of revenge coming right up. Zipper bags were good for keeping the human prey from realizing what’s inside the envelopes until it was too late, but canine noses, that was a different matter.

Dog treats got Newton into the yard with minimal fuss from Roxy, and the combination of a double bag sealed with duct tape inside a padded envelope with a few drops of camphor oil assured that the package would be left alone – at least until Newton’s target opened the door to fetch the newspaper the next morning.

 

 _Day 17_

 

Detective Clara Mancini secured a conference room, closed the door behind them and then turned around and eyed Prentiss and Morgan suspiciously. She had a fairly menacing presence for a five-foot-one, 120 pound woman. “Lt. Johnson explained what the FBI wants with this case,” she said, “but I could use a recap.”

“Steven Barber was at his school reunion the weekend before he disappeared,” said Prentiss. “Two other men from that school year have been murdered and another one is missing.”

“See, that’s the thing,” she said. “I never even heard about this reunion before your press officer called my department chief. Barber did tell his boss he’d be out of town, but no mention of the reunion.”

“What reason did he give his boss?” asked Morgan.

“Personal time,” said Mancini. “He had a major relationship break up on him eight weeks before, and the boss said Barber was recovering badly. Club owners aren’t your regular-issue businessmen, and Barber has been with Roy Pierce and his group for nearly a decades. Pierce liked the guy, didn’t think twice about him taking some time off. Then Barber just vanished into thin air. The last contact he made with anyone was an attempt to call his ex during that weekend, which you’re now telling me he spent out of state. Which means that we don’t even know if he’s made it back to Miami.”

Prentiss and Morgan exchanged a look. “We’ll need the contact information for anyone you’ve spoken to,” said Morgan. “We’ll probably need to talk with most of them again. Starting with the ex.”

“Sure.” Mancini reached to the folder on the desk and flipped it open. “Hayden DuBois. There you are.”

 

* * *

 

“Pretty,” commented Detective Wallace as he entered the conference room with two cups of coffee, one of which he promptly set down on the table.

Agent Reid turned his head from the laptop and blinked owlishly at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your abstract art there,” said Wallace, gesturing at the laptop’s monitor. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s a network diagram of the victims’ class,” said Reid. “The colour and thickness of the arcs represent the type and strength of relationship. The shape and colour of the nodes represent what we know of each person. Standard modeling methods – ” Reid waved at the three evidence boards to the side of the room “ – didn’t uncover any helpful patterns, so I’m trying something else.”

“It’s also more economic in terms of boards,” said Wallace dryly. “I’m sure the rest of the department appreciates that.”

“Um, yeah, if –”

“It’s all right,” Wallace told him.

Reid nodded. “You wanted something? Is there any news from the search parties?”

“No, nothing,” said Wallace. “But I’m told you were the first person in this morning and no one’s seen you leave this room since, so I figured I could at least get you coffee.” Wallace had watched the infamous Agent Rossi all but fuss over this kid through the previous days. Things like sitting in place for six hours over the ‘network diagram’ explained that solicitousness.

Reid looked down at the cup of coffee to the left of the laptop as if he’d only just realized it was there, then back up at Wallace. “Thanks.”

“Sure. I’ll keep you posted if there’s any news.” Rossi was with the search parties and would probably call faster than Wallace’s people, but it was the nice thing to say.

“Yeah. Same here.”

Ten minutes after Wallace left the room, Reid’s phone went off.

“Reid.”

“Hi, kid, it’s Morgan. Interesting thing about Barber.”

Reid expanded the relevant node in his diagram. “What?”

“He had his six-year-long partner break up with him a month and a half before the reunion, and his coworkers all say he was pretty broken up about it. Prentiss and I talked to the partner and _he_ says that, as far as he knows, Barber has been aware that he’s gay since his youth though he only came out years later.”

Morgan’s information parsed into two relevant details, which Reid articulated as he typed them in and waited for the model to adjust. “A potential motive and a stressor. Additionally, it provides an explanation of why the UnSub removed these particular organs from his victims as both the nipples and mouths carry a sexual significance.”

“Which the Corey-as-UnSub theory fails to explain,” agreed Morgan. “Our thoughts here exactly.”

The diagram finally finished computing. “Both hypotheses have an equal fit with their social constellation as adolescents. And Garcia still can’t find any trace of either of these men for the past two weeks.”

“Well, we’re still digging. Any news from Hotch and JJ?”

“They’ve been calling in periodically since morning, but – ” Reid pursed his lips, “ – we have a lot of data points, but they don’t congeal into any meaningful pattern yet.”

“We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. Same here.”

Reid disconnected the call. The base suspect pool consisted of the 117 members of East Carteret High’s class of 1990. This was trimmed down to the 90 who had arrived to the reunion. The profile was presently pointing to Barber, but the facts didn’t line up very well. He could adjust the parameters of the modeling program and hope for a clearer pattern. Alternatively, he could also throw in more data, as the clearer patterns tended to emerge out of the greater data density.

Or he could do both, he figured as he called up the command prompt for the program with his right hand and thumbed his cell phone’s keypad with his left. “Garcia, could you look up information on our suspect pool’s spouses? Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but I think we’re missing something, here.”

 

* * *

 

Newton had one neat ploy, which the first three jerks had fallen for and which number five undoubtedly would. Number four didn’t share that handy weakness, though, and that called for a different approach.

Which was why Newton was standing on that porch, smiling to the soon-do-be dead bitch.

 

* * *

 

They began the search fanning out from Corey’s home town of Williston, a few miles east of Beaufort. It was early afternoon when Reid called with a status update and the new theory of Barber-as-UnSub. Barber, like most of that class, was from Beaufort itself. Hotch debated it with himself, but opted to not interrupt the search.

One hour to the end of daylight, the decision paid off.

The murder scene was an abandoned stretch of shore, hidden behind a patch of trees. It had accumulated quite a lot of animal disturbance in the two and a half weeks that passed but the effort the UnSub had put into arranging it was still showing. The body was mangled far beyond recognition, but animals and the elements did not destroy Brian Corey’s driver’s license, nor did they disturb the careful arrangement of the knives.

Knives. In the plural. A whole set of them. All of them with dried blood. Hotch had no doubt that they would find tool marks on the bones and that the UnSub had extensively tortured this victim as well as the others. It was an unusually elaborate scene and, normally, this would indicate an UnSub with a previous record. Standing on the edge of the scene, by the trees, and trying to imagine what it might have looked like when the scene was fresh, Hotch thought there could be another explanation. He looked up over the tree line, estimating the direction of the setting sun.

The sheriff, passing by, followed Hotch’s gaze. “Yeah, it’s a pretty little corner, all right,” he said. “This guy must have a nasty sense of humor.”

“The sun would come up from that direction, wouldn’t it?” asked Hotch, indicating directly across the waterway.

“Probably,” agreed the sheriff. “Don’t tell me that means anything to you.”

“It might mean something to the UnSub. Both our potential victims were last seen the night of the reunion party. The UnSub tortured his victim, spent time with him. He probably spent here all night, waiting for the sunrise. A sunrise symbolizes a new beginning, or freedom from bonds. The UnSub may have chosen this place for the view of the sunrise. The aesthetics of the scene are arranged to match the emotional value the UnSub attaches to it.”

“Lovely,” muttered the sheriff, and trudged off.

 _Yes,_ thought Hotch. _If you’re the UnSub._

 

_The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next. - Ursula K. LeGuin_


	2. Chapter 2

_Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter? – Pablo Picasso_

 

 _Day 18_

 

The Barbers owned a small hardware store, which they operated with their son-in-law, Matt. They were aware that their older son had not been heard from in two and a half weeks, but they were not aware that multiple men from his year were missing as well. Hotch let JJ field that part of the conversation, leaving him free to watch the family’s reaction.

Joyce Barber loved her son. She kept snapping at her husband, possibly a redirection of her guilt. Conversely, Walter’s anger – more pronounced than his wife’s – masked disappointment and a sense of betrayal. Walter and Joyce had helped fund their son’s college education, Hotch thought, but then he moved three states over and did not join the family business. Steven probably returned the money but never provided an explanation. As for the son-in-law, there was resentment in his voice and expression, probably at being reminded that he was filling in for someone else, but it was a surface sentiment intensified by the need to satisfy his father-in-law employer. The set of his shoulder and his gesticulation betrayed concern, perhaps even affection. Hotch made a mental note to talk to the Barbers’ daughter.

“When Steven was home for the reunion,” asked JJ, “was his behavior different in any way?”

“He was distracted, and upset, but he’d been that way for a while,” said Joyce. “He’s had a terrible fight with a friend.”

“That was months before his visit,” said Walter. “Awfully long time to be still upset.”

“Walter,” chided Joyce. Then she returned her attention to JJ and Hotch. “Steven and Hayden had been good friends for many years. A man is allowed to feel the loss of a friend.”

“You were aware that Hayden and your son were close,” Hotch semi-asked.

“Best of friends, the way Steven told it,” she said. “And Hayden was good for Steven.”

“Good how?”

“Steven always said that he likes Miami, but his first few years there it didn’t look that way. He always sounded exhausted on the phone and when he didn’t, he was upset. He’d forget to call, more often than not, and from the pictures he sent – when he did – he probably forgot to eat as much as he forgot to sleep. He must’ve thought he was still in college and he was certainly working too hard. All that changed after Hayden.”

Erraticism, weight loss, avoidance; in a young, gay, closeted or recently out man immersed in the clubbing subculture. _Overworking_ wasn’t top of Hotch’s list of suspected reasons.

They weren’t going to learn any more here. “Thank you,” he said, and JJ moved in to conclude the interview.

“We need to talk to the sister,” he said once they were at a safe distance from the store.

“Becca Moore. She’s a teacher at the elementary school,” said JJ. “You want to update Morgan and Prentiss now, or after we talk to her?”

“Call them from the road,” he said. “If Barber had a drug problem and might have relapsed due to the joint stressors of his breakup and the reunion, they need to know.”

 

* * *

 

DuBois confirmed to Morgan, Prentiss and Mancini that Barber had acquired a heroin habit in college, which developed into a full-blown addiction during his early years in Miami. He’d tried to get clean multiple times, relapsing time and again. The second time he’s tried with a supportive, committed partner he’d succeeded and had been clean since. Pierce, Barber’s boss, confirmed that he was worried for him but maintained that Barber managed to resist the cravings, at least up until he’d left for his hometown.

Becca Moore, Barber’s sister, knew about the homosexuality and suspected the drug use. Past drug use, she insisted: her brother seemed heartbroken but otherwise healthy when he’d last been home.

The case was, in Reid’s opinion, making remarkably little sense.

Then Garcia called.

“Who’s your favorite person in the whole wide world?”

“You, of course,” he said promptly: the answer that would get him whatever information Garcia was bursting at the seams to divulge with minimal pain. “What have you got for me?”

“We,” she said, “have another victim. Brand-new. Portland PD fed the form into their system not even five minutes ago.”

There was only one person from their suspect pool who lived in Portland, Oregon. Reid expanded relevant node, re-annotated it as a victim and waited for the model to compile while he listened to Garcia.

“Our new missing person received a package with the exact same threatening note,” she continued, “and human fingers. But that’s not why this is really, really interesting.”

“The victimology became more varied,” said Reid. “The new victim is a woman, Lisa Taub, _nee_ Mark.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“No, Garcia, this is fantastic,” he said. The model finished re-computing. “Mixing male and female victims is not inconsistent with what we suspect of this UnSub’s motives, and…” The model finished computing. It was as good as Reid had hoped it would be. “We have a high-likelihood estimate on the next victim. Lisa Taub clinches the pattern. The most likely person to become this UnSub’s next victim is Kenneth Weir, nowadays from San Francisco, California.”

“Ooh, he and his wife and their adorable little daughter live in Noe Valley,” said Garcia. “I’d say he fits the pattern.”

“If Brian Corey is one of the victims then we can’t really say their adult socioeconomic status is part of the pattern,” said Reid distractedly “This UnSub stalks his victims for days – did Lisa Taub disappear last night?”

“Yes.”

“The UnSub is driving from town to town. If Hotch is right and the UnSub doesn’t leave his scenes before sunrise – Garcia, he delivers the packages by hand, if we alert SFPD in time – have you called Hotch yet?”

“Nope,” she said, her tone well beyond the polite degree of smugness. “I figured I’d call you first and then we can totally wham Our Fearless Leader with how utterly awesome we are. Should I set this conference call now?”

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

Five houses down from Jerk the Last’s Newton realized that something was wrong. There was a car parked on the street that didn’t belong in the neighbourhood. Newton passed the house without slowing down, turned into the avenue and didn’t stop until five streets away.

It could be nothing, or it could be that after four murders the police had finally caught on. About time, too – how difficult could it be to put together four nearly identical murders? Newton had done anything but spell it out for the cops.

The package couldn’t be left tonight, though. If they knew to expect Newton then the house would be watched, and the special little delivery would have to be smuggled through the regular mail. Another day’s delay, then, and some schmoozing. Newton had been as scrupulous about networking in the target cities as in studying the targets’ neighbourhoods and routines.

The phone number Newton needed was on speed dial. “Jimmy, baby, how’re you doing? Guess who’s in town? That’s right. Wanna go grab some drinks tonight?”

 

* * *

 

They’d left Prentiss and Morgan in Portland. It was midnight before the rest of them checked in at the hotel across from Union Square. Rossi had been out with the search crews for two days; Reid was so preoccupied with his models he was nearly walking into walls; and JJ had only had to contend with and coordinate between half a dozen police and sheriff's departments from as many states. Hotch ordered them all to bed and then grabbed a light jacket and went out. Putting off sleep for a few hours might being able to sleep through until morning.

The street was far from packed, but it wasn’t deserted either. Hotch estimated he could go around four blocks, including the streets intercutting them, in about half an hour at a light pace and allowing for traffic lights. The area was as downtown as it got, and every block had an all-night café or a lounge. The cafés were warmly lit, un-crowded, their glass fronts and sidewalk tables attracting patrons. The lounges were walled off, the people lining up outside or exiting them were a full decade or two younger than Aaron.

He kept walking. People walking about, laughing, casually leaning towards each other: he just wanted to witness that. He did not need to sit down with them.

The dark solid wood doors of one of the lounges opened. The group of five who walked out were women, mid-thirties to early forties, at ease with each other; the room he’d gotten a glimpse of behind them was spacious, reasonably lit, decked with wood. Hotch paused, considered the front of the establishment – it was impossible to see inside save for a sense of movement – and stepped in.

He hadn’t been wrong. It was a pub more than a bar, and certainly not a lounge. The interior design was based in dark woods and amber lights but the lines were sharp and modern.  Patrons ranged from thirty well into the fifties, and quite a large proportion of them were in what seemed to be groups of old friends, in couples or single-gender groups. The corners of the bar were open to the room but the edges backed against the walls. Hotch picked one such stool, with a fairly unobstructed view, and sat down

 

 _Day 19_

 

Joey Taub looked like crap even on the scale of people whose spouse had been missing for a day and a half. It was possible he hadn’t slept - hadn’t even tried to sleep - since he came home and found the door unlocked and the house empty but for the dog.

“I just went out for a few groceries,” he said, absentmindedly patting the dog’s head. Roxy – so thoroughly mix-bred that Prentiss couldn’t even begin to fathom what kind of dog she was other than “medium sized” and “long haired” – glued herself to her owner’s legs and would only move when he did, too. “The store two blocks down was still open. I was gone just a little over half an hour. I – ” he gestured helplessly. “The gate and the door were closed and it looked like she’d just gone to the neighbours for a minute.

No, he hadn’t gone with his wife to the school reunion. No, it was a mutual decision as they had only adopted Roxy from the shelter a month before and they did not want to upset her. No, he did not know of any school enemies his wife had had. She’d been one of the popular girls. He’d never heard of Bob Hursthouse, Brian Corey or Steven Barber, but Lisa had referred to Jeff Garrard as “an ass” in an affectionate way, and she and Ken Weir had been loose friends until their thirties.

No, she wasn’t particularly close to any of her school friends. Yes, he and Lisa were spooked by the package they found on Monday. No, he could recall nothing out of the ordinary on Sunday night. Yes, he was aware that there had been no signs of a break-in or a struggle. Lisa would have opened the door only to someone she’d known well, what with the scare of that package. Yes, he could make a list.

“The UnSub isn’t going to be on that list,” said Prentiss after she and Morgan left.

“No,” he agreed, as she turned the key in the ignition. “But we still need to look into it.”

 

* * *

 

Dr. Ken Weir was a research and development manager at a biotech company that resided in Brisbane, to the south of San Francisco proper. He had a small corner office, but it was still a corner office, and that was a very nice, very big and very expensive Apple computer on his desk. He was of average height and average build, wearing a dark grey suit, pale pink shirt and smart shoes. That light shade of brown had once been the natural colour of his hair, but Rossi was willing to bet it was now the handiwork of a very good hairdresser.

He also hadn’t been home the night before, and all the local cops had told his wife was that should she or her husband receive a package, they must not open it and should call the cops – who would be sitting in a car down the street – immediately.

“Nobody actually calls me ‘doctor’, not here” Weir said as he shook Rossi’s and Morgan’s hands. “We have far too many M.D.s for that.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Weir,” said Rossi.

“Now, can you please explain what is all this about? We have a deadline coming up in a week, and I’m a little short on time.”

Hotch spread the photos across the desk. “Do you know these people?”

Weir leaned forward. “These are Jeff, Rob and Lisa,” he said. “We went to school together – I just saw them three weeks ago, we had a reunion.” He looked up at Hotch and Rossi. “Did anything happen?”

“Yes,” said Rossi. “I’m afraid that they are all dead.”

Weir’s face drained of colour. He fell back in his chair. “Christ,” he said. “What? Why? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Hotch. Which was the truth, even if Hursthouse’s and Taub’s bodies haven’t been found yet; Garrard’s had been recovered the night before. Or what was left of it, anyway.

“We believe that one of your old schoolmates is acting out on an old revenge,” said Rossi.

“You think that – what the police told my wife last night, you think this man is after me also?”

“That we do,” said Rossi.

“Are my wife and daughter in danger?”

“We have no reason to think they are,” said Hotch. The length that the UnSub had gone to in order to avoid hurting the Taubs’s dog was a good indication that this UnSub cared for collateral damage and preferred to avoid it.

“Good, that’s good,” Weir said, blankly. “I have to call Lisa’s husband – I didn’t even know…” He shook himself. “Why is this man doing this? Why would anyone do this, and after so long?”

“People do those things because they believe themselves to have been slighted,” Rossi explained. “Waiting gives them time to plot their revenge.”

“The reunion may have what set this person off,” Hotch continued. “We call that a stressor.”

“A stressor,” repeated Weir, then visibly tensed up as he tried to get a better grip on himself. “What do you need to know?”

“You were already instructed on what to do should you receive any mail that you were not expecting,” said Rossi. “We also need you to think about all the people you went to school with. One of those people has a grudge against Jeff, Rob, Lisa and you. It may be something that seems entirely benign to you but to them, it has become everything.”

Weir shook his head.

“What about these men?” Hotch laid the photos of Corey and Barber next to the other three.

“Brian and Stevie – are they suspects?”

“You tell us.”

“Brian was a lot of fun in school, but – well, I guess he’s always been trouble, I just didn’t see it that way, then. But we’ve gotten along well. And everybody liked Stevie. He was a little shy, but – a really good guy.”

“Were you aware that Stephan is gay?”

“What?” Weir’s reaction was genuine: he hadn’t known. “No, he never said – that would explain, though. He was that shy with the girls.”

“Did anyone know?” Rossi continued. “Or suspected? Is there anyone who might have given him trouble?”

“Well, Brian, if anyone, or Charlie Willis – any trouble that happened, one of these two would be behind it.”

“So neither of these men would have any reason to resent you? None at all?”

“Nothing,” said Weir. “The only thing I can think of is that Jeff and I had a terrible fight in freshman year – over Lisa, actually – but that was water under the bridge before we even graduated, and you’re telling me they’re both dead.” He rubbed his forehead. “And the FDA deadline isn’t going to get pushed back.”

 “We are here for your safety, Mr. Weir,” said Hotch as he and Rossi rose from their seats.

“We’re just trying to help,” Rossi added.

“Yes, I know,” said Weir. He, too, rose from his chair to shake their hands again and show them to the door. “I’m sorry. It’s just – ” he gestured helplessly.

“We understand,” said Rossi smoothly. “Just please, call us if you remember anything more.”

 

* * *

 

“Char-lie Willis,” said Garcia as she typed in the name. “Is doing time at the Lincoln Correction Center in North Carolina and is not expected to rejoin the free population in at least a year.”

“Yeah, he didn’t ring any bells in Reid’s graphs, either,” said Rossi. “I’d like for you to check something else for me.”

“You’re being so polite, it has to be really bad.”

“Pittsburgh sent in their crime scenes photos.”

“Yes, I saw. Ick, ugh, and ew.”

“Hotch says that the knives appear to be the exact same set as in the Williston scene.”

“It can’t be the exact same set because the UnSub leaves them at the scene but yes, I see what you mean. The UnSub is buying a new set of high-end knives at every town, and you want to know if it’s possible to cross-reference this somehow. Do you have any idea how big of a haystack you just set me up with?”

“No bigger than our complete faith in you.”

“Ow. That was low.”

“Did it work?”

“Fine. If it’s there, then I’ll find it for you.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

 

* * *

 

Morgan and Prentiss arrived at San Francisco at four in the afternoon. The team regrouped for a briefing at six.

“Plate numbers of all the cars that passed in Weir’s street today,” announced JJ, pushing the stack of papers in front of her. “They all checked out. Only one vehicle displayed suspicious behaviour and it turned out to be a cable technician on a legitimate service call.”

“Pedestrians?” asked Hotch.

JJ shook her head. “Nothing suspicious.”

“How was Weir?” asked Morgan

“Not particularly helpful,” said Hotch.

“He has a huge FDA deadline hanging over his head in five days, so big that even a threat to his life can’t distract him from it,” said Rossi. “Other than that, he seems like a nice guy.”

“Nothing on this end,” said Garcia over the video conference. “Either he stacked up a hell of a lot of cash before setting on this little road trip, or he’s using a name we haven’t flagged. And no, there isn’t anyone else who’d been to that reunion who isn’t accounted for.”

Reid straightened up in his chair. “What about people who hadn’t gone to the reunion, but were informed about it?”

“Then they show up anyway and ambush their victim,” agreed Hotch.

“I’ll get on it,” said Garcia.

“There’s another thing,” said JJ. “At first I thought it was a leak, but now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said carefully. “Someone alerted a local newspaper that the FBI are in town to prevent a crime. And they were specific that we’re here to stop the _last_ in a series of murders.”

There were three seconds of silence as everyone took that in.

“You think that was the UnSub,” said Rossi.

“I think it might have been. Detective Weismann and I spent half the day trying to track the leak, if it’s a leak, and there seems to be nothing on this end.”

“Have you talked to that reporter?”

“Yeah. She’s kind of protective about her source. Typically.”

“If it was the UnSub,” said Rossi, “then they needed to know who to talk to, and where.”

Morgan shook his head. “This is one hell of an organized UnSub.”

“The murder sites at each city had to be pre-selected,” said Reid. “It would take considerable familiarity with the terrain to locate them. He’s been stalking his targets for years, not just for the few days between delivering the package and abducting them.”

“He’s had twenty years,” said Hotch.

“That’s some serious grudge,” said Rossi. “I think we should talk to Ken Weir again, maybe show him some more pictures. He knows what this is about.”

“You and Morgan do that,” said Hotch. “JJ and I will try again at the newspaper.”

“What I’d like is some more suspects,” said Reid. “We only have one, and he’s not very good.”

“Yes, I’ll let you know,” said Garcia.

“Will another pair of eyes help?” offered Prentiss.

“Fresh perspective is always good,” said Reid.

“All right, everyone,” said Hotch. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

He was back at that pub on the second night, too. His scotch arrived promptly, and the woman moments after that.

She was tall. He estimated three- to five-inch heels from her posture and gait, but that still put her barefoot height at five foot ten at the least. _Curvy_ didn’t do her justice, and _well built_ was probably the result of years and decades of exercise. This one had never been thin, which showed also in the cut of her clothes – ruffled v-necked sleeveless shirt over straight-legged pants – and their colour, which was solid black. She was in her thirties, but he couldn’t tell if early or late. Light tan, dark eyes; an oval face framed by dark hair and sparkly chandelier earrings. A matching necklace dipped into her cleavage. She, too, was nursing a low-ball glass but the liquid in hers was dark. The glass was coated in condensation, and the liquid was not milky. Hotch estimated flavored vodka.

She set down on the stool next to him and put her glass down, but she kept a wide angle between them and she did not lean forward.

He let her make eye contact.

“‘Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,’” she quoted. “‘Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness.’”

“Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” he acknowledged.

Amused surprised flitted across her features. “So you know the other half of it, too.”

“Not verbatim.”

“‘So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.’” She paused. “Strangers on airplanes are like that: ships that pass and go in the night, never to return. I figure, strangers in bars can be like that, too.” She smiled. “You look like you don’t know whether you’ll stay seated long enough to finish that drink. I figured I might as well offer conversation.” She shrugged. “I’m just passing through on business, too.”

It was an elaborate speech. If she hadn’t used it before, complete with the beats and the body language, then she’d certainly planned and rehearsed it in her head before approaching him.

She offered a half-smile in reply to what she probably read as his hesitation. “Conversation for conversation’s sake,” she promised. “Honest. Silly tales like that time the neighbour’s ferret got free and ate your Aunt Mildred’s petunias.”

If he had been more relaxed he would have needed to swallow back a smile. Egocentric, this one: she wanted to hear the sound of her voice and figured he might do as an audience. Still, in her way, she meant what she said: he seemed lonely and distant, and she genuinely thought her offering might be appreciated.

Egocentric, yes, but harmless in a way, and she would be a good storyteller.

“Van Gogh?” he asked, nodding at her glass.

This prompted an unrehearsed smile out of her. “Yes,” she said. “Tastes like candy. Something that spent thirty years in an oak barrel?” she asked, nodding at his glass.

“Eighteen,” he admitted. “Is your aunt’s name really Mildred?”

She laughed. “Yes,” she said, “but it was the geranium, not the petunias.”

It wasn’t her aunt, and he had no idea if her name was truly Mildred, but somewhere out there was an elderly lady whose geranium had been eaten by an escaped ferret.

“Do tell,” he said.

 

 _Day 20_

 

It so happened that Rossi and Morgan were in Brisbane, trying to argue and sweet-talk their way past Ken Weir’s secretary, when the mail came in.

“This one,” said Rossi, pointing at a small package that did not seem to belong with the rest of the corporate mail. “Is that for Mr. Weir?”

“Yes, actually,” said the carrier.

Morgan fished a glove out of his pocket. “We’ll take that.” He picked it up, considered the handwriting, and looked at Rossi.

Rossi looked at him back. “Back to PD, then,” he said. Then he turned and smiled at the wide-eyed secretary. “I hope Mr. Weir will agree to see us later,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

 

* * *

 

Elsie Carlisle was possibly a nice woman, but presently she was being a very annoying reporter. A very annoying reporter on whom they may have just gotten leverage other than “We could come back with a warrant,” which hadn’t done Detective Weismann any good the day before and wasn’t doing them any good that day.

Hotch slid shut his cell phone and stepped back from the aisle to the Carlise’s desk. “That was Rossi and Morgan,” he told JJ, and then addressed Carlisle: “The man we are trying to protect has just received a package identical to the one received by previous victims. Ms. Carlisle, I’m asking you again. Help us save someone’s life.”

“Please,” added JJ softly.

She looked at them for a long moment before saying, “It won’t help you much.” She bent down, opened the bottom-most of her drawers, straightened up and handed them a clear plastic bag with an envelope inside. “This was delivered anonymously yesterday.”

JJ took the bag and turned it over. “There’s no postal stamp,” she noted.

“No, there isn’t,” agreed Carlisle. “It pretty much showed up in the post basket.”

“Whoever delivered it had to be in the building,” said Hotch.

She was sitting down. He was standing. It was her home turf, but he was particularly dissatisfied with the situation. It was a substantial staring-down before she finally sighed, stood up, and said: “Fine. I’ll introduce you guys to the security desk.”

 

* * *

 

“Ears,” said Morgan.

“Ears,” agreed Rossi.

“Doesn’t that ruin our vengeance for sexual harassment theory?”

“Well, actually…” began Reid, and then deflated under the combined press of stares.

“But Lisa Taub was a woman,” said Prentiss. “What if the body parts aren’t chosen based off of the person they’re sent to, but the one they’ve been taken from? Gossip,” she clarified, when they didn’t catch up. “Rumors.”

“Taub spread rumors about the UnSub,” said Rossi.

“Hursthouse touched when he shouldn’t have,” said Morgan.

“Garrard could go either way,” said Reid.

“Leaving Corey as the only one clearly associated through a sexual element,” concluded Prentiss.

“But the problem is still that the one living person who may know what this is about and who is not our UnSub, is not talking to us,” said Morgan. “I say we need to park ourselves in Weir’s office and stay put.”

“We need to find someone from that school year who is not where they should be,” said Rossi.

“So far, all of them are,” said Reid. “Garcia went through anyone who’d been contacted about the reunion. I asked her to look into spouses, siblings, any children old enough to drive – but that’s going to take time.”

“Is there any way we could help her out with that?” said Rossi.

“I doubt it, but I’ll ask.”

“At least there’s one good thing about Weir’s FDA deadline,” said Morgan. “The man has no routine whatsoever right now.”

“Is he driving along the same route?” asked Reid.

“He’s driving, period,” said Rossi. “He takes the train when he’s on regular business hours.”

Prentiss shook her head. “Thank goodness for moving targets.”

 

* * *

 

“Sculptress.”

Tori laughed, shook her head. “That’s one I haven’t heard yet! How’d you figure that?”

“Rough hands,” Hotch told her. “And you’re used to handling weights.” She was staying at the hotel across from the pub. He wasn’t falling asleep any easier. They ran into each other again. “Wrong again, I presume?”

“Yes,” she said.

Hotch shook his head slightly and leaned back. “I give up.”

“Mixed media,” she told him.

“And I was supposed to guess that.”

“Hey, you challenged yourself.”

“That I did.”

“I did some performance art,” she said, “but mostly I do photography, painting, that sort of thing. I like leaving things out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, idly stirring the ice in her vodka, “some things, some subjects, are easy to pay attention to, or they’re easy to pay attention to in certain ways. So I try to not do that. I ask myself, what has not been documented? What has not been commented on?”

“Sounds interesting.”

She laughed again. “It’s a market,” she said. “The question isn’t what’s interesting but what sells. I try to strike a balance.” She looked down at her vodka. “Mostly I succeed.” Then she slanted him a look. “You wouldn’t want me to do a portrait of you,” she said.

Which was the question she would have expected him to ask. The expected return to her serve would be, _Why not?_ He tilted his head, mutely giving her the opening without actually committing himself to the words.

She answered that question, all right, but it was not any answer he would’ve expected to hear.

“Because you look like broken dreams and promises unfulfilled,” she said.

She was looking down at her drink again. Her hands were still on the table, but not relaxed. Maybe she was giving herself space; maybe she was giving it to him.

“What if I’m a mermaid?” she asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

She looked up at him. “What if I’m a mermaid?” she repeated. “But I’m not wearing jeans.”

“I think you shouldn’t finish that drink,” he told her.

“Maybe,” she agreed, pushing the glass away. “But what if?”

 

 _Day 21_

 

“So,” said Garcia in her best no-nonsense tone over the video conference. “I may have an alternative suspect for you guys. But I’m telling you right now, it’s a long shot.”

“Anything, baby girl,” said Morgan.

“Well,” she said. “So we kept looking for people who are not where they’re supposed to be. But what about people that nobody knows where they are?”

“Garcia,” said Hotch.

“Right, right. I’m giving you Marianne Bester. No unusual biographical incidents, except that she went totally off-grid within six years of getting out of high school.”

JJ opened their copy of the yearbook and started flipping through the pages. Reid turned to the laptop.

“Any idea on how she disappeared?” asked Hotch.

“Well, she changed her name about a dozen times,” said Garcia. “Not all of which were fully legal, if you know what I mean, and sometimes she’d use several names at once. Basically I have no idea where she’s been and what she’s been doing as of 1996.”

“That’s not much of a lead,” said Rossi.

“It isn’t,” agreed Garcia, “but she’s the only person unaccounted for except for the dead guys.”

“And Steven Barber,” said Rossi.

“And Steven Barber,” agreed Garcia.

“You know,” said Prentiss, “if it’s Marianne Bester, that explains a few things. Like why Lisa Taub would open the door to her.”

“It was another woman,” said Rossi.

“There she is,” said JJ. She pushed the book towards the middle of the table. The girl in the photo had a very round face and small, flat eyes hiding behind glasses that were taped together.

“She’s from Williston,” noted Hotch. “Like Brian Corey.”

“She was completely socially isolated,” announced Reid, finally pushing back from the keyboard. “Best we can tell.”

“Okay,” said Hotch. “She’s the best un-followed lead we have right now. JJ, call Nicole Matthews, see if you can get anything more out of her, including more people for us to talk to. Rossi, see if you can’t jog Ken Weir’s memory.”

“Of course.”

“Reid, Prentiss – the stores across from the newspaper, let’s see if any of them had security cameras, and if so we need that footage.”

“See if any of the women entering the newspaper building could possibly be Bester.”

“Exactly.”

“Morgan, you and I are following through on every local authority that has been connected to this case. We need to bring this one together.”

 

* * *

 

“Marianne Bester?” Weir spread his hands. “I don’t remember her at all.”

“This might help,” said Rossi, handing him a copy of the yearbook photo.

Weir blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Weirdo Annie. She never talked to anyone.”

“Was it that she never talked to anyone?” asked Rossi. “Or that no one ever talked to her? I am not accusing you of anything, Mr. Weir,” he added. “I just need to know about this woman.”

“It kind of went both ways,” said Weir after a moment. “No one liked her, but she thought she was better than everyone.”

“Why would she think that?”

Weir shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t pretty, I don’t recall her being a particularly good student, she definitely wasn’t a good athlete – it was just the way she carried herself.”

The girl in the photo didn’t look like she thought she was better than anyone, in Rossi’s opinion. Hanging on to her pride, yes, but as a last protection for the dignity that, Rossi suspected, her peers consistently denied her.

“How was her relationship with Brian Corey? They were from the same town, weren’t they?”

“Yes, I think they’d been together from preschool to senior year. He picked on her, I think, but Brian picked on half the girls.”

“Did he pick on her the same way that he picked on the other girls?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Weir shook his head. “Look, I honestly don’t remember.”

“What about Lisa?” insisted Rossi. “Do you know if maybe Lisa spread any kind of rumor about Marianne?”

“Because I would know about that. There were rumors about Marianne all the time.”

“Like what?”

“Like she was so stupid she shouldn’t have been in a regular school, or that she wasn’t Christian, or wasn’t straight – all the usual mean things teenagers tell about one another. Nothing special.”

 _Except that she attracted all of them._ But Rossi didn’t say that out loud. “Keep that photo,” he said. “Study it. Try to imagine what she might look like now.”

“You don’t honestly think that – that she would murder all these people for a twenty-year-old school grudge.”

“I’ve seen people do stranger things, Mr. Weir.”

 

* * *

 

“Mancini.”

“Hi, Detective Mancini, it’s Agent Morgan.”

“Agent Morgan,” she said, by way of greeting. “Funny that. I was just about to call you.”

Morgan raised his finger to get Hotch’s attention. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think we have Steven Barber’s body.”

Morgan let the front legs of the chair fall back to the ground. “What happened?”

“A car was found out in the glades,” said Mancini carefully. “It was way off-track. It was also locked, which is how the ‘gators didn’t get at the body. Not that the was much left of it, but – the car is Steven Barber’s car. And that was Steven Barber’s ID.”

“How long until we have a cause of death?”

“The coroner’s report is going to take time, obviously, but there was drug paraphernalia on the passenger’s seat.”

And Steven Barber had had a bad breakup with which he was not dealing well, from the partner who’s helped him get over that problem, and Morgan was guessing that he did not have a great time at the reunion.

“Thanks,” he said. “Keep us posted on that coroner’s report, would you?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Hotch was looking at him when he ended the call. “News from Miami?”

“They’ve got Steven Barber’s body,” said Morgan. “He ODed.”

Beat. “Call Garcia,” said Hotch.

 

* * *

 

They’d had better days. They’d had worse days. They made no progress - there was nothing in the visitor log, and the photo comparison from the security footage was taking _time_ \- but at least nothing went wrong.

Until Hotch stepped out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby, and one of the clerks at the front desk raised his eyes, waved him over, and said, “Agent Hotchner, this was left for you.”

It was an envelope. A simple, brown, flat, legal-sized envelope that bore no postal stamp and the words _To Aaron Hotchner_ in a familiar script.

Hotch stared at it where it lay on the counter. “When was it delivered?”

“About an hour ago? The woman who brought it said it could wait, which is why we didn’t call.” The man’s voice faded on the last words as he saw Hotch’s expression.

He did not have a glove on him.

“If I could have a tissue, please.” He picked up the envelope, weighed it in his hand. Carefully, he slit it open and glanced inside before putting it down again and fishing for his cell phone. “I’ll need access to a scanner,” he told the clerk, and then called Dave.

 

* * *

 

By the time the team shuffled into the door Hotch had appropriated, he had four of the photos arranged in a grid and the fifth laid to the side.

“Crime scene photos,” he told them. “Taken by the UnSub, and delivered to the front desk to me by name.”

“Five photos?” asked Morgan.

“The fifth one’s a future site - I already scanned it and put Garcia on it, but she’s out of the office already.”

“I’ll get Weismann and her people on it,” said JJ immediately.

“And I’ll call Weir,” said Morgan. “She’s moving tonight.”

“She knows where we’re staying and she knows who we are,” said Rossi.

“She knows someone at that newspaper,” said Prentiss. “It’s how she got her information, how she planted that tip for that reporter.”

“We circulated her photo, nobody recognized her,” said Reid.

“That photo is twenty years old,” said Prentiss. “And this is a woman who erased her old identity so well that even Garcia can’t track it. She would have changed her appearance and she would have been thorough about that, too.”

JJ flipped her phone shut. “Weismann’s on it,” she said.

“These photos,” said Reid. “It’s almost like the same scene over and over again.”

“Like this,” said Rossi. He arranged the five photos in a line. “It’s a series. Our UnSub is an artist.”

“The first and the last photos,” said Reid, pointing. “They’re waterside scenes.”

“And this UnSub is seriously detail oriented,” agreed Rossi. “Hotch - ”

Hotch already had his cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Garcia,” he said when she answered. “She’s using the first name Tori. She’s a professional artist, photographer or mixed media. Yes, I’m sure. She may have referenced The Little Mermaid in her past works. Yes. Let us know when you have something.” He hung up and looked back at the rest of the team who were, predictably, looking at him. “The same woman ran into me twice since we arrived here,” he said.

They were still looking at him.

“The Little Mermaid?” asked Reid.

“Something she said and which seemed important to her. What if she’s a mermaid,” he frowned, “and then something about not wearing jeans.”

“Hotch, are you _sure..._ ” began Rossi.

“Oh my god,” said Prentiss. She pushed Reid out of the way, sat by the computer and called up a browser window. “Did you say ‘Tori’?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is not about the fairytale,” said Prentiss. “I think it’s a line from a song. A Tori Amos song. I just need to - there it is. ‘Silent All These Years’.”

Reid leaned over her shoulder as the lyrics scrolled down the screen. He pointed at a line near the end. “It’s your turn now’,” he read.

“‘To stand where I stand,’” completed Hotch. “It’s her.”

Morgan got off the phone. “Weir left his office half an hour ago,” he said. “And he isn’t answering his cell.”

 

* * *

 

“Tori Newton,” said Garcia by way of a greeting when she called back from her office. “She’s a photographer who dabbles in other media, known for her biting commentary on various social issues _and_ not featuring the face of any human being except herself in any of her works. She does not have much of a past before 1998, she’s staying in an hotel not two blocks from you and she’s been in all the right towns at all the right times. She also has five purchases of knife sets on her credit card, correlating with said towns and times.”

“She’s it,” said Morgan.

“She’s it,” confirmed Garcia. “You would also be interested to know that, despite owning her own car, she’s rented cars at all her stops except Portland. Her current rental is a shiny black convertible, but I don’t think that’s the car she’ll be using tonight because I identified the location from that photo and it is Sonoma Coast park seventy miles north of San Fran, and her own wheels will do much better on dirt roads.”

“She’ll use the rental,” said Rossi. “Or she already had. She’s ambushing them on the road.” “Explains her change of MO with Taub.”

“You’ll have the license plates and the park maps in your mail,” said Garcia.

 

* * *

 

It was all taking entirely too much time. The only advantage of the hour was the relative lack of traffic on the way to Sonoma Coast. Garcia had called ahead, and by the time they arrived at the gate there was a park ranger waiting for them who had extra flashlights, extra maps and the location of the campsite Tori Newton had reserved.

They found Newton’s car but not Newton, and certainly not Weir. The woman did not set up camp. The car was unlocked. The roll of duct tape was tossed on the back seat. The switchblade and the taser were on the passenger’s seat. There was also an mp3 player hooked to the car stereo through a jack.

Ranger Ortega completely missed the ripple that went between the BAU agents at the sight of the mp3 player. “That’s some hike to that specific bluff,” he said, dubiously. “Especially if she’s carrying the guy.”

“Weir is approximately 170 pounds,” said Hotch. “She’s about 160.”

“She can do it, but she’s going to be slow,” Morgan translated.

“Which is good, because she got herself a good head start,” said Rossi.

“Still a hell of a hike in the dark,” said Ortega.

Nobody glanced down at their watches, or up at the sky.

“Right,” said Ortega. “Everybody’s got their flashlights?” He was answered by six beams of light. “So let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They kept their flashlight beams on the ground, where the dirt and the loose stones were, keeping at a pace close to a run despite the dark. There was nothing to see outside the circles of light, nothing to hear except for their own hurried steps and breath. Until, that is, the deep, even rumble that crept into their consciousness as if it has always been there.

They were drawing close to the ocean.

As they approached the bluff, the roar of the waves was so loud it nearly drowned out everything else. The edges of the sky were getting light, and it was becoming possible to see: the narrow rocky outcrop reaching out to sea like a beckoning finger or a curled arm, topped with thin grass, and there, right at the very end of it -

Hotch broke into a run, getting ahead of the group, flashlight abandoned and gun held at the ready. “Tori!” he shouted, straining to be heard. “Marianne!”

The distant figure straightened, and then waved.

“Don’t move!” he shouted, and: “Drop your weapon!”

“Already dropped!” she shouted back. “Had to make quick work of it this time.”

His heart ached. _Too late for Weir,_ which meant too late for Weir’s family. “Stay right where you are!”

She tossed back her hair, trying and failing to get it out of her face. “I’m not going back to the frying pan.”

“It’s over, Marianne.” Prentiss was coming up behind him. She, too, had her gun at point, but her voice carried nothing but sorrow and empathy. “It’s over.”

“Marianne’s dead,” said the woman at the end of the bluff.

“No, she isn’t,” Hotch told her. “You aren’t. Or we wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

“Hands on your head, Tori,” said Prentiss. “Do it now.”

They were halfway across the bluff, almost there, close enough to make out the ruins of Ken Weir’s body. The sky was getting lighter by the second, knives glinting in the early morning light.

Newton cocked her head. The wind was in her hair, blowing it forward, making her expression more difficult to read.

“What if I’m a mermaid?” she said, and then -

“No!”

\- she tossed herself over the edge.

 

* * *

 

The bluff rose twenty yards above the waves, and the rocks that scattered them. Newton didn’t, and couldn’t have, survive the fall.

Meg Weir had her head held high and her four-year-old daughter in her arms when Linda Weismann and JJ knocked on her door at noon the same day. Days later, she would call the widower of her late husband’s school friend.

Lisa Taub’s and Rob Hursthouse’s bodies would be recovered over the next days, the photos takes by Tori Newton used to direct the searches.

Hayden DuBois and Becca Barber would meet for the first time at Stephen’s funeral. Clara Mancini would be there, like Greg Wallace would be at Hursthouse’s, Tim Alice at Lisa Taub’s, like Ash York had been at Jeff Garrard’s and Sheriff Lewis at Brian Corey’s. It was what you did, even if - especially if - nothing else you did seem to matter at all.

Aaron Hotchner’s team would be back in Quantico, poring over their consults, knowing the next UnSub would come.

Well before that, Emily Prentiss came bearing two cups of tea, put them down on the table and sat down across from Hotch in the quiet jet. Outside, the sky was darkening; Morgan had his earphones on, his eyes closed, but his fingers were drumming idly to the rhythm; Reid and JJ were playing cards, their soft laughter the loudest sound in the cabin; and Rossi had fallen asleep.

Prentiss rarely drank coffee, herself, but she would make coffee as naturally if it needed.

He picked up the mug she put on his side of the table, curled his hands around it, and after one long moment took a careful sip, letting the heat and the layers of taste settle in.

“She also has a song called Marianne,” said Prentiss. There was no need to say whom. “It’s about a school friend who had committed suicide, and no one ever knew why.” Pause. “It came out in 1996.”

The year in which Marianne Bester disappeared, and Tori Newton began to forge her identity.

“She decided to end it like that even then,” said Prentiss. She didn’t say, _You never could have saved her._ She didn’t need to: she brought him tea.

At the bottom of his go bag was a single sheaf out of a sketching pad. He found it in an envelope that had been slipped under the door of his hotel room. How it had gotten there, he didn’t know. Maybe she had recruited a friend for that: her plan was detailed to a T but her hotel room, when they got to it, was a mess of clothes, cosmetics and art supplies, the only orderly things being the collection of CDs and the boxes in which she kept everything that was about her plan.

The envelope had no name written on it, but he knew who it was from even before he opened it, even before he pried out the single page and stared at it, sinking into a chair as he took in the details of the sketch.

It lay at the bottom of his go bag, and from there it would go to the bottom of a pile at the bottom-most drawer of his desk. The upper torso of a man, leaning forward, his forearms resting on a surface sketched with a few quick strokes. Shoulders hunched in, almost, and the elbows pointing out, the hand telling an entire story of their own even before one looked up at the face.

His palms were hot, the tea chilling slowly. Prentiss was still sitting across from him, staring out the window. She looked back as he raised his mug slightly.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded.

 

_Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them their attention – Simone Weil_


End file.
